Do you guys remember when my darling husband, the amateur birder, was keeping worms in our fridge?

You may argue that this isn’t nearly as bad, but I don’t know, I think it’s worse.

Chia seeds immersed in water. Chia gel, I guess. CHIA GEL. Like a Chia Pet. That’s right. Except you eat it - except I don’t eat it because my tummy gets a little upset just thinking about it.

J just finished listening to the audio version of the book “Born To Run,” and has been talking a lot about “minimalist running,” which is fine, and possibly even pretty cool, but he also got excited about some of the foods suggested in the book used to refuel and replenish after - or before - a run. Like Chia Pet seeds. Sorry, Chia seeds.

I am way into the idea of real, healthy foods in place of things like Gatorade and Power Bars and what have you (even though sometimes those things are unbelievably tempting and delicious) but little seeds you put in water to create some kind of viscous energy potion? Bring back the worms, I say. I’ll take the worms instead.

So, honestly, besides making meatballs, which were delicious, one of the real reasons I don’t have as much time to write on this blog is that I write on other ones. Which I love doing, except for the fact that blog writing should pay big bucks! Or at the very least it should pay little bucks. And it does not. It tends to pay no bucks. No dollars in the slightest. But at least I’m getting my name out there! Oh man, I am not sick of saying that at all.

Oh well. On to the next thing. You guys have seen this, right?

Right?!?

Here’s a little something I wrote about all of this on the Motherland blog for www.ct.com.

Essentially I just yield to Lisa Belkin’s piece in The Huffington Post and say that she can comment better on the whole situation than I ever will, but whatever. I know when to give in, people.

For my birthday this year J got me a gift certificate to a local cooking school, something I’d asked for, and when I went for my class - which was an incredible amount of fun and inspired me to try baking again, despite the fact that I have claimed over and over to hate baking and, actually, come to think of it, I haven’t baked since recommitting myself to it, but that’s another story - one of the things the teacher said that really stuck with me was about following recipes.

I mean, of course she was into recipes, because she teaches people to cook for a living, but what she was saying, specifically, was that sometimes people feel like they can just “throw things together” when it comes to cooking. And hey, sometimes they can, especially if they know what they’re doing or have a knack for the culinary arts.

But sometimes, she said, if you’re not much of a trained cook, “throwing things together” tastes like exactly that: something thrown together. I knew exactly what she meant. I’ve tried throwing things together before to bad results because there is, in fact, a science to cooking. Like, you can’t just throw cheese in with macaroni and make macaroni and cheese. I heard about someone who tried that once. Didn’t work.

If you use recipes often, though, you learn techniques and rules and then, after awhile, improvising while making dinner becomes easier.

Her sage advice came to mind this morning when - after telling Nora that we could have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight - I was looking up meatball recipes and found one that looked great but required the addition of bechamel sauce and I was thinking, “You know what? I bet it would be fine without that.” Because I’m a little lazy when somebody tells me I am going to need to make a sauce. Also, it seemed like a highly caloric sauce, as they often are, and I forced myself to believe that I didn’t want to make it because it would be healthier for my family to leave it out. The truth, however, is the thing I wrote before about being lazy.

But after going back and forth on the issue a few times, I remembered the advice about following recipes and I realized that if I want to expand my cooking skills in general, I should learn to make a basic bechamel sauce.

And so I am!

While whisking the milk into the sauce just now - constantly whisking, a necessary step - I had some time to think, and I thought to myself, “Hey. I haven’t updated my blog in forever. And I haven’t posted anything interesting up in even longer.” So here I am.

Today I didn’t let laziness get in the way of following a recipe and I updated my blog with hopes of doing the same more regularly. Both following recipes and the blog, I mean. I’m going to try my very hardest.

Last night I got back from my sister-in-law’s bachelorette party in New York City. I spent a lot of time thinking about the weekend before I went. How would I handle all the activities, most of which included drinking? How would I survive, considering I’m tired pretty much all the time lately?

The verdict? It was NO problem. I haven’t laughed that hard and so much in forever.

This morning, of course, I am reeling from the lack of sleep, which put the lack of sleep caused by my second born in the past year to shame. In that pointed clarity that comes from a weekend like the one I had, the kind of thinking where you are ready to return to your normal life - but do it better! and healthier! - ll I can think about is making myself some more coffee and some other, pointed and specific statements and goals, stated below, that I think will help get me back into the swing of things (in addition to the fact that I think I might go to bed at 7:30 or so tonight, and certain people should not tempt me to do otherwise by making watching television on the couch until like 10 p.m. seem like such an innocuous and great idea, ahem).

-Holy WHAT? We’re spending as much time as possible this week outside.
-Long or short? I’m going for it. Long. Longer anyway. My hair.
-More coffee. Stop getting sidetracked.
-Dinnertime is about to get revamped around this place.
-Pumped about: new running shoes, our backyard garden, getting in a swimming pool this summer.
-More coffee. Seriously.

As I’ve mentioned before, our dogs have taken a hit since the birth of our children. I know this must happen in a lot of families, and that it is in some ways unavoidable, but it still makes me sad sometimes. Not that their lives are tragic or anything, just that after we’ve eaten dinner and put the kids to bed and are just absolutely exhausted and longing for the couch, and I know that they’d like nothing more than a nice walk, well, a lot of the time the couch wins.

I was at the vet this morning forking over the entirety of our financial savings getting the dogs their annual checkups and shots, and was amazed by this one vet tech we’ve seen numerous times and the overwhelming amount of positive energy he devotes to each and every dog. I was amazed because I know he has two kids - we’ve talked about it before - and he still has the reserves to tell Mina what a wonderful girl she is, over and over again, while stroking her lovingly. Meanwhile, the most I can do, thanks to Gabe’s 5:30 a.m. wakeup, is halfheartedly pet her on the head as she’s getting her blood drawn, thinking, “But here’s the thing. She’s not a wonderful girl.”

Truthfully though - as I’m starting to realize about much of our life right now - this is just a blip. Our dogs have had good lives and, although I know they could do with a few more long walks and less expletives directed at them when they demand things of us - say, water - they will continue to have good lives. In fact, as the kids get older, their lives will get even better. Just the other day, for instance, Nora told me she wants to take Mina swimming at the beach this weekend. I could take CeeCee, she explained. She doesn’t like Cecilia, which completely defies reason but sort of makes sense if you know Nora.

Also, every once in awhile I am reminded of how absolutely loving, loyal and hilarious dogs really are. And it always prompts me to give my own dogs a little more affection at the end of the day.

Denver the guilty dog was one of those moments for me. Somehow I just saw this video for the first time. My friend Abby shared it with me the other day, although I guess it’s been around a long time. But it reminded of how happy I am that dogs exist, and that as crazy as life sometimes is because of them, I feel very lucky to share our roof with two of these glorious creatures.

A month or two ago I started thinking maybe I should write a book. But, like, for real.

And one of the things that’s happened since then is that I take note of all the books I hear about and see, which is something I’ve always done, but now I’m doing it in a more thoughtful way.

Also, due to the tone that seems to be characterizing my 34th year, I do it in a very cocky way.

Like when I heard a radio piece recently about this woman who quit her job to spend a year on an oyster farm and then wrote a book about it, and I was all, “Ok. I could totally do that.” Or when I bought J this gardening book yesterday, that essentially lists different types of herbs and vegetables and how to grow them, each page dedicated to a different plant, which is actually super helpful but also really simple and I said, “Nice format. I could do this kind of thing.” Or whenever I think about this guy, for instance, all I can think is, “Come on, I could write a book in my SLEEP.”

It’s all talk, of course and, more importantly, not helpful, since the plain truth is that I haven’t written any book. Kinda like how when people talk about that really abstract modern art featuring squares or circles or what have you, saying, “I don’t get it, I could do that!” and J - who loves that stuff - replies, “Yeah, but you didn’t.”

Beyond some actual brainstorming and a few tiny steps I’ve taken in the right direction (I hope) my book fascination has pervaded my life in many amusing ways.

This morning while feeding Gabe breakfast I got a sudden urge to clean out the freezer, which we’ve been meaning to do for awhile but when it comes right down to it that’s a task that usually ends up on the “not that fun” list, and thus, not completed. Sometimes though, you catch a bit of inspiration and you’ve got nothing big to do with your energy, so the freezer gets the benefit.

And as I was down on my hands and knees, removing old bags of hot dog buns that, sadly, are probably never to taste good again, and wiping down the surfaces, I thought about how I’d later tell J all about how I’d gotten the freezer done that morning! And how he’d probably tell me that he’d split some molecules for cold fusion, then pipetted a glucose solution and examined microbes related to pandemic fever germs. That’s the kind of thing that scientists say.

So I decided maybe I wouldn’t, for once, tell him about the rather mundane thing I’d done that day, then wondered what the hell I’d do with all the creativity I save for communicating the minutiae that is sometimes my daily existence. Who will I tell when I revise the laundry system? I’ve got things to share.

Wait a second! I thought. I’ve got it. I’ll tell the entire world. I could totally write a book about that.

As it is the tradition to almost never go to church in this household, but to certainly engage in various religious traditions picked at random, I almost always give something up for Lent and this year I decided to give up sweets.

I know how boring that is, and that I’ve been more creative and interesting in the past with my sacrifices. I mean, everybody gives up sweets, am I right?

But it’s a good one, because ever since the birth of that baby J and I have been in a near perpetual state of fatigue and I finally get why people tie lack of sleep with gaining weight: it’s because a Pop-Tart will sure as hell get you over that 3 p.m. slump!

I want to clarify, before I get accused of lying for the purpose of creating a more exciting narrative (liarism? blogfibbing?) that I’m not an awful eater or anything. In fact, I’m a pretty good eater. I eat whole, healthy foods as much as possible, we cook a lot and I buy local and organic when I can. Take that.

I try and encourage (force) my family to do the same.

I don’t even consider myself to be a person who has a big sweet tooth. Nora obviously got her love of sugar from her Uncle Vinnie.

But sweet stuff when you’re kinda tired all the time and all you want is comfort is really, really tempting. And J and I have gotten to a place where some Ben & Jerry’s and a night of TV is, like, the ultimate, and I’d like to move beyond this phase of our lives. More running and less ice cream, although the television can stay. Especially if it is “Downton Abbey.”

So I gave up sweets and besides a little bit of cake at my sister in law’s bridal shower the other day, that I somehow rationalized as beyond the rules, I’ve stuck to it. It’s hard, but honestly, I feel better all the time and that is keeping me on task.

J decided to give up sweets, too, which is helpful and I think must be pretty difficult considering his lab seems to be constantly gathering for fancy chocolates from faraway lands and birthday celebrations.

Of course, in typical fashion, he’s constantly upping the ante and trying to outdo me, making martyr-like statements like, “Oh, I’m not going to have sugar in my coffee. That’s a sweet.”

I don’t even take sugar in my coffee, so I wasn’t about to fight that battle, but I saw where he was going and had to explain that this was not a contest, and that sugar in one’s coffee or afternoon tea - which I do enjoy - is not what I meant by “a sweet” and that during Lent you have to resist the urge to set yourself up for failure by going too far with the whole thing.

Like when I told him that I’d had a Morning Glory muffin at the coffee shop the other morning, and that I didn’t consider that in breach of contract because it didn’t fit in with the category of bad habits I am trying to break. And he was all smug, going, “Well, I’m not going to have things like that,” and for a minute my competitive spirit really surged and I thought about how gung ho I could get with this thing and pummel him with my far superior knowledge of sugar content and nutrition in general, until I remembered how incredibly happy I’d been when I got that muffin.

So I very quietly responded, “Well, I am.” Slow and steady wins the race and, hey, maybe this is a contest after all.

I was complaining to J the other morning about the fact that I feel my life has become devoid of a true rewards system, like, one where you work hard, and then get a big prize. I say things like this a lot, forgetting about the fact that I have, you know, cute and reasonably well-behaved children that I grew in my body and am raising.

“Every day, the thing I most want,” I explained, “is to go to sleep. That is all I want. And it bothers me that that’s all I want. I want to want something more.”

J, being the supportive and optimistic partner that he is, quickly corrected me. “That’s not true,” he said. “Going to sleep is not what would make you the happiest right now, is it?”

No, I told him. It was morning, for Christ’s sake. “Coffee is what I most want right now. And I have it. And it’s making me happy.”

(Remember my children? Apparently they weren’t quite making the cut).

He asked me when I started thinking about getting in bed and I said around 5 p.m. He said that was normal after a long day. I’m not sure about that, but I appreciated it.

So I’ve been thinking about what it is that I most want at each point in a regular day for me. And it’s something like this:

5:30 a.m. –> for the baby to stop crying

7:00 a.m. –> coffee

9:00 a.m. –> a job offer

10:00 a.m. –> lunch

11:00 a.m. –> lunch

11:30 a.m. –> lunch

1:00 p.m. –> a new wardrobe/a nap/a weekend away

2:00 p.m. –> a job offer, specifically as a columnist and/or any job in Italy/more coffee

3:00 p.m. –> to get into yoga pants

4:00 p.m. –> for J to get home from work really early

5:00 p.m. –> dinner/to get in bed

5:15 p.m. –> for J TO GET HOME FROM WORK

5:30 p.m. –> FOR J TO GET HOME FROM WORK RIGHT NOW

7:00 p.m. –> television/bed

8:00 p.m. –> bed/that brushing your teeth wasn’t that important

8:30 p.m. –> bed

9:00 p.m. –> if I’m not already there, BED

Better late than never.

Every weekday morning for the past couple of months I have had but one thought, and that thought is, “We have GOT to get ourselves together here, people.”

Remember when I talked about the lovely afternoons I spend with my children? They’re still lovely, and I anticipate them remaining that way. And thank the little baby Jesus for that, because our mornings continue to resemble a badly planned circus show.

To be fair, there are exceptions to the rule, but they are exceptions. The mornings when J gets up at 6 and I awake to the smell of coffee brewing, and we have the time to coax our darling girl - whose general attitude upon waking is to abandon all normal attempts at human language in favor of extensive, almost artistic whines - down the stairs and out the door to school.

But that’s not the norm. The norm is what we do most mornings, which is throw her clothes on at breakneck speed, bribing her with the promise of a banana if she gets ready in a timely manner, while rushing in and out of rooms getting dressed ourselves.

That’s right, we can still bribe her with a banana. I guess I’d better be thankful as hell for that.

Where’s Gabriel during all this commotion? Most mornings, your guess is as good as mine.

Adding to the problem, or perhaps helping to create it, is that the baby, our once-excellent sleeper, has had a couple of ear infections in recent months, thus once again waking up in the middle of the night, refusing anything but the breast as means of comfort. That is, my breast. Breasts. Both of them.

When I’d try sending J in the room, I would immediately hear Gabe’s cries increase tenfold. Like, “You guys have got to be kidding me. You know exactly what I want and this is not even remotely anything like it.”

So, this is life.

This week, however, I had a bit of a breakthrough. Maybe it’s because we’ve got busy months ahead, including several weekend trips away, and I need some normalcy in my life, or maybe it was simply because I was sick of stumbling back and forth between the dark rooms upstairs in our house, without so much as an estimate the next morning of how many hours I’d slept, and how many I’d been awake.

Our mornings have got to improve. But first, we’ve got to work on our nights.

Letting a baby “cry it out” is a tough thing. I have absolutely no problem doing it and we had great success with just two nights of minimal crying, followed by sleeping through the night, when Gabe was four months old. But you’ve got to dedicate yourself to a plan when it comes to babies and sleeping, because when you’re half-awake and you know a few minutes of breastfeeding is going to do the trick, it’s easy to give in.

And that’s no problem if you don’t mind doing it. But I was positive our boy didn’t need the nutrition he was getting in mere minutes of nursing a couple times in the early morning hours and, on the flipside, those “mere minutes” were making me feel like a constant zombie.

It had to go. So I made a decision that the nighttime nursing was over. But as we all know, breaking habits is hard, so it’s been a rough week. Some serious tears, J intervening at times to do a little rocking back to sleep, and Gabe having to learn that that is the new normal.

I see brighter times ahead. I see them through a million cups of coffee.

I see them, despite our rather exceptional night last night, which involved J and I passing out in bed after making a wonderful Valentine’s dinner together, and Gabe waking at 3 a.m., and then J’s attempt at soothing him, followed by him not being soothed, followed by more fervent rounds of crying, followed by repeat - and successful! - soothing attempts administered while I (and my breasts) were shut away behind the guest room door in an attempt to distance myself from the volatile situation, followed by muffled sniffles coming from the hallway in the form of our daughter, who had wet the bed, who I then changed and put into the bed with us, where all three of us slept side by cramped side until just past 7 a.m., which, because we had to be out of the house by 8, was late, and so, another crazy morning.

The brighter, more well-rested times, though. Coming!

We have plenty of things to work out in the process, I realize. If, for instance, you want to know why we let our daughter, who, as you know, has had a tough time with potty training, wear underwear to bed just because she felt really strongly that we allow her to do that, the answer is I don’t really know.

I’ll try to explain it to you if you want, however, over a nice, strong drink. Vodka martini with olives. Thank you.